Somewhere I'll find You
by LoveIsNeverWasted
Summary: After the happenings of the Reichenbach Fall, John is remembering his best friend. Songfic to Within Temptation's "Somewhere"


_I wrote this originally in German and translated it afterwards… If you find mistakes or if something just sounds strange (inappropriate word or something), feel free to tell me =)_

Without moving John is lying on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. His thoughts are with Sherlock, as always. For probably the thousandth time he's hearing Sherlock's voice reverberating in his mind, trembling, hushed, blurred by the mobile phone but still close enough to be threatening to break his heart. "I'm a fraud, John… Moriarty wasn't real"…. John doesn't believe him, he doesn't want to, he cannot believe it and nothing will ever convince him that Sherlock Holmes has been telling a lie all the time.

He turns his head and perceives that the chaos in their flat – _his_ flat – has commenced to collect dust. He hasn't lifted a finger to tidy it up and has forbidden Mrs. Hudson to do it by herself. She has just nodded her head and looked sad.

John is tired, so unbelievably tired, and yet he refuses to sleep, for he knows, that in his dreams, reminiscence will come to life. And he doesn't want to be reminiscent, but he doesn't want to forget either, he just wishes everything to be the way it was beforehand.

Only the ticking of the clock interrupts the silence and chops it into pieces, divides the time into tiny portions, being for John the only prove that it's passing by at all. He concentrates on the noise, trying to fill his entire mind with it to have the images be banished from his head. He's counting the seconds as if he could cling to them. It comforts him and devastates him at the same moment, for every second is taking him away from Sherlock. Nevertheless he's counting on, eventually miscounts at about 600 when the thought of a blood-stained pavement makes him grown with horror, starts again from the beginning, concentrates, and finally, at second 1489, the renunciation of the past days takes its toll and he falls asleep.

_Lost in the darkness_  
_Hoping for a sign_  
_Instead there's only silence_  
_Can't you hear my screams?_

Strongly his head hits the ground. His sight is veiled and for a moment he's afraid to pass out. But that must not happen now, he has to get to Sherlock… Dazed he picks himself up, nearly ripping off a fingernail. He hardly notices. He's running, and yet every step feels like he's wading through deep morass. He will be late. When he reaches the figure lying on the ground, seeming to consist only of dislocated extremities and looking just so totally wrong, a crowd has already accumulated. He edges his way through the bodies, he's feeling Sherlock's warm blood on his fingers and then, with a single bang, his world collapses.

Hands are dragging at him, faces looking down on him, but he can't see them clearly, there's a blurring haze above everything. There are screams, and at some point he understands that he's the one who's screaming.

With an appalled gasp John startles from sleep. It has been just a dream, just a bad dream, Sherlock isn't – then he perceives the dust that is covering everything and he feels like reality was tearing him into pieces again.

It has become dark by now but John doesn't have the strength to get up and turn on the light. And so he remains lying there, shrouded in nothing but blackness and dark thoughts. He turns his back on the darkness of the room and presses his face into the cushions to choke the tormented sounds which are trying to wrest from him. The success is limited, and it doesn't really help that John imagines Sherlock's scent could still be found in the cushions.

_Never stop hoping_  
_Need to know where you are_  
_But one thing's for sure_  
_You're always in my heart_

Completely irrational, there is still hope. Hope, that one day, he will find Sherlock, wearing his dressing gown, in the living room, thinking, with his fingertips put together. Hope to get once again this short glance full of pride and warmth when despite his average brain he has achieved to surprise him. Hope, that John's best friend is to come home one day.

John doesn't know whether his life is possible at all without Sherlock. The idea is preposterous, it's preposterous to imagine he could ever find a meaning for his life that matches the one Sherlock has given to him. It seems to be impossible that any task could fulfill him the way chasing criminals by a genius Consulting Detective's side has done, that anything the future might bring could not be trivial and dreary in comparison to what he has lost, that any person could fill the gap Sherlock has left in him when he has gone, just like that, nearly without warning.

The clock at the wall is still ticking along, quiet and seemingly checkless, and it's nearly beyond John's comprehension how time can just go on, completely unimpressed. Maybe, John is thinking, time is really to heal every wound. But right now he can't think so and to imagine the memory of Sherlock to be ever less valuable to him is even frightening. He is indeed afraid, as strange it may sound, of waking up one day to find instead of rupturing loneliness just a dull emptiness. He is afraid of the memory to fade and be just a blurred stain, he is afraid of not remembering this special tone in Sherlock's voice when is proclaiming his deductions, the sound of his steps on the stairs when he's coming home from a night without sleep on a criminal's traces, the arrogant face that is driving Anderson nuts – _has been_ driving him nuts… John is afraid of oblivion.

_I'll find you somewhere_  
_I'll keep on trying_  
_Until my dying day_

John resolves to never forget Sherlock. He decides to give a special place of honour in his memory to all the details, all the peculiarities, mannerisms, quirks and acts of madness, to conserve them thoroughly and to keep his image of Sherlock alive somehow. And when he needs him, he can make use of this picture in his head and find an anchor in reminiscence. John will keep Sherlock with him and even if he's not to return, if he's indeed and forever dead and nothing can bring him back, somewhere, inside himself, John will always find him. Maybe, one day, he will be dating a girl again and thinking of Sherlock sabotaging his date will make him smile. He will, maybe, meet Mycroft and ask him about his diet, he will watch sunrise with the certain knowledge that it actually doesn't matter at all whether the earth is going round the sun or not.

_I just need to know_  
_Whatever has happened_  
_The truth will free my soul_

Finally John does get up. Where he's taken the strength from to do so he doesn't know himself, but he manages to lug himself into the kitchen, take a cup out of the cupboard and put a tea bag into it. It's the second to last one. Wearily he tries to memorise to go shopping.

John is wistful to know what has really happened. The truth… And he wishes to hear it from Sherlock, the slightly reproachful tone, even the condescendence were welcome to him if he could just hear him explaining how obvious it was that his death was faked and that even John should have noticed that. And John would smile because he knows that Sherlock doesn't mean it and that this is his way to say sorry for having him let believe he was dead, and the mourning would be forgotten and John would start living again.

_Lost in the darkness_  
_Tried to find your way home_  
_I want to embrace you_  
_And never let you go_

While waiting for the water to boil, he is staring at the wall and finally opens the fridge. He's not hungry, it's rather a routine check. But he doesn't find any body parts and although he has actually known, he feels a painful twitch.

He likes to imagine what it would be like when Sherlock returned. That he couldn't have borne loneliness any longer, that his life has been as empty as John's. He would like to believe that Sherlock is somewhere out there, deciding that he wants to reveal to John he's still alive. Protected by the darkness of the night he would return, hesitate in front of the door, unsure what to do and for the first time following only his intuition. Finally he would just enter and leave it to his friend to devise the reunion scene. John would look at him, glancing voicelessly in disbelief at the well-known, tall figure in scarf and coat. And he would jump up, hug Sherlock and confirm on oath to never let him go again.

John likes to imagine that and sometimes he can nearly hear the footsteps on the stair.

_Almost hope you're in heaven_  
_So no one can hurt your soul_  
_Living in agony_  
_Cause I just do not know_  
_Where you are_

There are moments when John is entirely sure that Sherlock, somehow, has survived, that he has accomplished the impossible and has cheated death once again. Sherlock isn't the guy to commit suicide, just as he would not lie to everybody to provide himself fame.

John takes his cup and returns to the living room. Wavering, he remains at the door case until he lets himself fall into in one of the armchairs, staring at the empty sofa. Mechanically, he begins to stir his tea.

Sherlock could be everywhere. He could be at the other end of the world, in another city or just a single street away from here, hiding where nobody would look for him – or, and at this point John's thoughts painfully succumb to what is more probable – everything could be true and he is really –

_Wherever you are_  
_I won't stop searching_  
_Whatever it takes, I need to know_

Maybe John is just losing his mind right now, but, in spite of everything, he will always keep his eyes open when he's outside, he will search evidence for what has really happened and draw his conclusions as well as possible and sometimes, when pointlessness is dominating, he will, as if for solace, see a tall, familiar figure shooing at the edge of his field of view.

The tea has cooled down by now but John does not even notice. With two huge draughts he empties the cup and returns it into the kitchen.

It is a never ending stream of thoughts, rushing through his mind, going round in circles and steamrolling everything until he feels like he's drowning. Yet he hasn't resigned himself to Sherlock being gone forever and maybe he never will. Maybe he will spend the rest of his life waiting, hoping and believing.

_I'll find you somewhere_  
_I'll keep on trying_  
_Until my dying day_  
_I just need to know_  
_Whatever has happened_  
_The truth will free my so_


End file.
